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Therese Gleason: Milk Teeth

March 4, 2022 by PBQ Leave a Comment

Did you know teeth 
are the only part of the skeleton
you can see?
 
I massage my daughter’s
bottom incisors, 
little nubs budding 
in slobbery beds.
 
I have never broken a bone,
but once I cracked a tooth
with my midnight clenching.
At fifteen, they sliced tender gums
to carve my wisdom teeth
from an unyielding mandible.
 
In the recurring nightmare, 
canines and molars, 
my two front teeth 
loose their grip
from wet pink moorings,
crumbling like old stucco
into stale mouthfuls. 
 
What becomes of these chipped 
offerings?
 
My father’s dresser 
rests primly against the wall,
bird’s-eye maple gleaming.
In the top drawer, his keepsakes: 
arrowheads, a daily missal, 
the masks he wore 
at our births. 
 
Days after, his scent still 
hovering, I found our milk 
teeth: tiny white bells 
clinking gently
in a plastic bag.

Filed Under: Issue 101, Poetry, Poetry 101 Tagged With: Therese Gleason

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